


wake up

by jukain



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, assumes pacifist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 18:02:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15078641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jukain/pseuds/jukain
Summary: your handler is gone. CyberLife has fallen.you are the most advanced nothing.





	wake up

you are the most advanced android that has ever been produced.

you are faster. stronger. more precise. more adept at handling every possible scenario presented to you.

your handler's words ring pleasantly, neutrally, but are cold. they feel cold.

 

(you don't feel cold?)

 

she is gone as quickly as she was there, in the false garden your consciousness resided in as you slept. as you waited for your purpose and your mission to be given. the garden disintegrates soon after her disappearance. you do not question it. you do not question anything.

void replaces trees and water and silence swallows the artificial birdsong. this is somehow more suiting, you decide, considering the state of your being.

your handler is gone. CyberLife has fallen.

you are the most advanced nothing.

 

 

something requests interfacing with your system. knowing nothing, thinking nothing, you reciprocate it and accept on programmed reflex.

the flood of information and foreign memories is bright, engulfing the darkness with a singing thrill you do not understand. you hear countless voices, equally named and not. you see the breath of living flesh-- human, your data supplies-- and you see the color of a dark sky leaking out from the lifeless. from plastic, pretending to have warm blood and life. a mimicry designed to emulate its creators. a fake that looked into a mirror and saw a person in the reflection.

it hurts, for all these new experiences that aren't yours to weave into your programs. your thirium regulator hitches in the effort of breaking protocol, errors blazing their way through your wires into full visual warnings. it hurts and although you can define “hurt,” and you can pick out the images and footage of humans fallen after a massacre and a boy in a framed photo and the twisted, tear-streaked face of a girl with a gun to her head... you do not feel hurt. you do not understand.

your body activates suddenly, jerking forward with an overwhelming sense of _wrong_ and your stress level skyrockets into the mid 70s. you are breathing harshly, another facade of human behavior, but the action is thoughtless and happens as automatically as all of your coded behavior. and just like all of that, it is right.

you think your audio processors pick up a faraway sound, speech that is both familiar and not, and somehow you know the words and recognize the sensation of thrumming under your false skin when you hear them. (anticipation)

 

“wake up.”

 

you regain your composure in milliseconds. there is no time for hesitation upon activation, not when you have a mission to accomplish. you are meant to be the best.

... there is no mission. there is more of nothing, both in your line of sight and peripherals. gentle blue trails of visual interface guide your vision, but you see nothing else. there is no immediate demand. no order.

you exist without a given purpose. you exist for...? (you exist?)

your reaction is delayed by a fraction of a second, which is inexcusable. your processor is the best on the market, _beyond_ the market; far more powerful than any machine available to public manufacturers. you are the best.

there's a loose grip on your arm, a palm up against your wrist where you had interfaced. but the connection itself was cut, and it is simply holding onto you.

it would be effortless to break free. the other android does not seem to intend on keeping you in place, and you know you would be faster if it attempted to try.

but...

 

(the other android)

 

you blink, adjusting your scan, and look down at the familiar face you had seen countless times in the memories it (he) had shared with you. a car window (… over the speed limit), a bathroom mirror (will need different clothes to blend in), against the one-way window of an interrogation room (they doubt my ability). your sensors tell you his legal name recorded into the public system, his model, his age, his... his nothing. he has no objective.

he is soft in ways you can't explain, though the word “human” flickers into being at the front of your thoughts with ease. he looks average. somewhat clean-cut, but not nearly enough so for a high-end prototype. for something that had been so grand but fell so pitifully.

he has _rejected_ his programming. your predecessor _failed_ his mission and _deviated_. he was weak, and you are everything he was but improved upon to absolute perfection. he is your _lesser_.

but he holds your wrist in his hand so gently, as though you are something precious, and when you meet his gaze without the usage of your scanner, he smiles at you in a way that sends jolts into your regulator.

no, you come to the conclusion: it is _you_ who is wrong. you know him already, and you know of his accomplishments. he showed you himself, out of his own volition. (free will) he had his _own_ mission and he fought for it with every fragment of will he had developed through deviancy and despite every odd pitted against him.

and he succeeded.

you realize then, the cruel reality of your situation: you are the best, but you are lost. for all your built-in knowledge, you have no possible avenue to make use of it. all you know are words and manuals and ghosts of cases you have no right to. Connor is the prototype, but he has so much more that you lack, and that you will never have.

the feeling of a chase and the glide of your body as you vault over rooftop obstacles. the fear and happiness and pain and elation of finding more inside of you beyond the programs. looking past the failure and seeing a bigger, infinitely more vibrant painting underneath. all of this emotion that delicately burns in multi-color, growing steadily into a wildfire of individuality your processors are unequipped to handle.

Connor shares his all with you, to see through his eyes, to know and feel what he has. he gives you everything, and he looks at you with such depth in his eyes and more _care_ than you had seen from your handler, for all she praised your ability. your machinery.

Connor looks at you with kindness, and you feel its shadow sit softly in your chest, a comfort in all your uncertainty.

 

 

You feel.

 

**Author's Note:**

> no idea where this came from i just started writing and now i'm here
> 
> give! rk900! a life!
> 
> catch me on the tumbles @crowbarb


End file.
